Snow, Tea and Solitude
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: John was on holiday: a week or so of peace, a roaring fire, nicely aged Scotch, brisk Highland walks and no sulky, bored consulting pain in the arse in sight. Maybe the cottage wasn't as idyllic as he imagined and the weather was awful, but there was no way he was proving Sherlock right and running home after only two days.


Title: Snow, Tea and Solitude

Rating: M

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: John was on holiday: a week or so of peace, a roaring fire, nicely aged Scotch, brisk Highland walks and no sulky, bored consulting pain in the arse in sight. Maybe the cottage wasn't as idyllic as he imagined and the weather was awful, but there was no way he was proving Sherlock right and running home after only two days.

Written for Kedgeree11 for Holmestice 2013, thank you for some lovely prompts! xo. Borrowing from ACD. Enormous thanks to my lovely beta Tsylvestris.

* * *

**Snow, Tea and Solitude**

When Bill had first offered the use of his holiday rental for a couple of weeks, John had the sudden image of sipping nicely aged Scotch in front of a roaring fire, snow-capped mountains, and vigorous Highland walks around a loch. Something idyllic. Two weeks later, with Sherlock being particularly obnoxious, John decided to take him up on the offer.

The cottage was not as charming as it had looked on the holiday website, but Bill had said John was welcome to it for a fortnight if he liked and John wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if that gift horse meant a respite of a week or so from a sulky, bored consulting pain in the arse.

He unpacked his luggage, took out his book and his bottle of expensive whisky, and lit the fire in the grate. He'd brought groceries and cooked a proper meal in a kitchen that, despite being rudimentary, at least didn't need to be checked first for hazardous wastes.

True, it was cold. He had the electric blanket turned all the way up and still had to burrow under the covers. In the morning he couldn't bring himself to emerge from his cocoon until his bladder finally drove him to it, but for the first day he enjoyed the tranquillity. No loud violin music, demands for assistance, or rants about boredom. Nothing but peace and quiet.

A misty drizzle had enveloped the cottage and surrounding countryside, so John stirred up the fire again and spent the day with cups of tea, his book, and his laptop, working on the detective novel he'd been flirting with writing for some time. He'd never dared mention it in front of Sherlock for fear of acidic scorn. Now seemed the perfect opportunity to see if he could do anything with it. He worked away for a good hour, soon hitting his stride, the words pouring out as quickly as he could type them.

_"Honestly Shirley," Josh Walters smirked, looking fondly at his stunningly attractive, loyal assistant. "You mean you didn't notice the coffee stain on his right shirt cuff?"_

_"No, I didn't," Shirley said, tossing her dark curly hair. She crossed her long shapely legs and raised mercurial ice-blue eyes, pinning him with their intensity. "I was too busy watching you work, John_

He stopped typing. He deleted the last word, then backspaced through the whole last paragraph. He decided to take a break from novel writing for a while.

He went to the window, considering a walk, but the weather had only gotten worse. Now sheets of rain made the surrounding countryside invisible. He shivered, threw another log on the fire and made another cup of tea instead. He resisted the urge to check his phone.

He settled back into the threadbare wing-backed armchair with his book for the rest of the afternoon.

The only thing missing, he decided later, sipping at his Scotch, toes stretched towards a warm fire, watching the raindrops run in rivulets down the window, was someone sexy to spend the day with under the covers.

That night the wind picked up, howling around the eaves, rattling every single bloody window and whistling through hidden cracks. He pulled the blankets up over his ears and tried to sleep.

The second day, he made toast and looked hopefully out the window. The rain had turned to sleet and the wind continued to howl, a mournful, lonely sound that seemed to burrow into his brain. He did his best to ignore it, being a seasoned veteran in the art of ignoring repetitive annoying noises. So much for peace and tranquillity. At least there was still solitude.

He put on an extra jumper and sat beside the fire. He opened his laptop again and read through what he'd already written. He deleted the page and started again.

A few hours later, he'd written well over two thousand words. The hero, Josh Walters, retired spook, had met his brilliant but socially awkward partner, Shaun House, and John was really pleased with the odd-couple repartee they had going. He'd just introduced the love interest, the gorgeous Doctor Samantha Finn.

_"I'll see you later then?" Dr Finn said with a sexy smile as she leaned in to give Josh a soft kiss. _

_"Of course," said Josh, sliding his palm along the gentle curve of her waist. She drew back with a sigh and then with one last knowing smile, turned and sashayed towards the door. Josh turned back to Shaun who was watching him with an inscrutable expression. _

_"Tedious," declared Shaun. "While you were wasting your time flirting with Dr Finn, I hacked into Mawson's computer."_

_"Jealous?" Josh smirked. _

_Shaun's sharp cheekbones reddened. He sniffed and didn't deign to answer but his cold blue eyes flickered towards Josh for a moment and his obscenely shaped lips parted as if he were about to say something before he thought better of it. _

The fire was suddenly far too warm. John put the laptop down and wandered over to the window to watch the trees bend under the blasts of frozen rain.

He tapped his fingernail against the frame for a moment then went to where he'd left his phone on the kitchen bench top. He turned it on but after walking about the house for a bit still couldn't get any bars. There were no missed messages or texts from earlier, either. Not that he expected any. Sherlock probably hadn't even noticed he'd gone. Or he was still expecting John to give up on the idea of a holiday away and come crawling home after two days.

John plugged the phone into the charger and made another cup of tea. He had peace, he had a fire, he had tea. He was going to take full advantage.

On the third morning, it was raining again but only in random spits and the wind had calmed slightly, enough that John could see the misted mountains in the distance. It looked romantically bleak, so he rugged up and went for a walk. He took his phone in case there was better reception higher up. He was halfway up the nearest hill, looking down at the smoke curling out the chimney of his little stone cottage, when the rain hammered down again. He was covered in mud, soaked through and turning blue by the time he got home.

He took a long, hot bath and then made toast and soup and sat bundled up in front of the fire until he was finally warm again.

He looked over at the second, empty chair and for a moment pictured Sherlock lounging there, plucking at his violin, deep in thought until suddenly he'd glance up and give John that small half-smile of his. John smiled to himself, then shook his head and changed his fantasy to a hot blonde ski-bunny type with Scandinavian features and an inviting smile. Much better.

He suddenly remembered his phone and retrieved it from the pocket of his dripping coat. No bars. No messages.

With a sigh, he returned to the fireside and picked up his book again. He thought about the argument he'd had with Sherlock before he'd left. Not that what he said had actually even registered through all Sherlock's aggressive self-pity, he was sure. John _may_ have made a bit of a deal about leaving for a week of peace and solitude. Sherlock _may_ have made a snarky declaration that John would be bored and not last two days, as a result of which John was staying at least a week to avoid proving Sherlock Bloody Holmes right.

The fourth morning, John lay in bed wondering what the hell he was going to do all day. The wind howled and rattled the windows sardonically. The cottage was starting to feel damp as well as cold.

He wandered downstairs, switched on the kettle, and regarded the miserable, windblown landscape. The sleet had turned to snow in the night and then back again, and the drifts across the cottage garden were slowly being melted to slush by the drizzle.

He did battle with the ancient washing machine and finally was able to clean his muddy clothes from the day before. He made another cup of tea and glared defiantly at the lack of bars on his mobile phone.

Four days. Would it count if he went down to Edinburgh and checked into a hotel there and spent the rest of the week at the pub? Sherlock would probably be able to deduce that and hold it over him gloatingly.

If he even remembered John had gone.

He stared out at the bleak, craggy vista and caught himself wondering what Sherlock was doing right now.

By the evening, after a long, quiet, solitary day trapped inside a damp, rickety cottage that leaked cold air and seemed to be about to blow away at any minute, 221B was starting to take on the air of a golden memory. He reached for his mobile in the vain hope that the howling wind had miraculously blown in some reception, but nope, not a single bar. He finally had to admit that he might be missing certain lanky, selfish, genius pricks just a bit.

He had just poured his evening glass of Scotch and opened his laptop to attempt to write something that wasn't cringingly self-inserting when there was a loud pounding on the door. He put down his laptop, shrugged out of the crocheted knee-rug, and cautiously went to the door.

"All right, all right," he said as the pounding continued. He unlatched the door and flung it open, and all six feet of Sherlock Holmes tumbled in with a blast of sleet-filled wind. John slammed the door shut and turned to stare open-mouthed at the man.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, adrenaline spiking through him.

Sherlock had dropped his bag on the floor and was wiping water droplets from his expensive woollen coat. His hair was wild, damp, and windblown, and his face was wet. "John," he gasped, gripping John's shoulders. His eyes swept over him and for a moment John found himself pinned by that too perceptive gaze.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"You – Oh." And like that, Sherlock drew back and spun away. "It's freezing in here," he complained and strode off to the fireplace to warm his hands.

"Yes, well, you just let the bloody cold in, didn't you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows derisively as he looked around the cottage. "Salubrious," he said snidely and shrugged out of his coat.

"Fuck off." John headed into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. "And answer the bloody question. If there's no emergency, why are you here?"

"You weren't answering my texts," Sherlock said haughtily. John saw him hang up his coat and unwind his scarf.

The mugs clattered as John got them down from the cabinet. "There's no reception and I told you I was going away for a few days."

After a few minutes' silence, John stuck his head around the door frame. "You missed me," he declared, stabbing a teaspoon accusingly in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock sniffed but didn't meet his eyes. "Why would I miss you? Forgive me if I was concerned for your wellbeing. That's what friends do, isn't it? Worry needlessly?"

John blinked, quite touched actually that Sherlock had been worried, let alone had driven all the way across the kingdom to find him. "Yeah, they do, silly sod. I was fine." He licked his lip thoughtfully. "You really thought something had happened to me?" He stepped into the living room.

"It may have," said Sherlock defensively, but there was something about his posture, something almost _evasive _that caught John's attention. Suddenly he turned, gloved hand clenching into a fist. "This is intolerable, John! Come home with me."

John grinned. "Come on, it's not that bad. Bit on the damp side perhaps—"

"I don't mean the _cottage!"_

John blinked again. "Then what?"

Sherlock sucked his top lip under his bottom one briefly. "You."

"What?"

"You said you'd had enough of me," he mumbled. "And then you didn't answer your texts."

John's mouth snapped shut. He re-ran the conversation he'd had with Sherlock before he left. Maybe he had made some sort of declaration…of…that…sort… "You thought I'd left…permanently?"

Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. He straightened and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and stared out the window. "It really is unpleasant here, John."

He exhaled a dry laugh. "Yeah, well, if you'd waited one more day, I think I'd have packed it in and come home." He looked at Sherlock in wonder. He'd really thought—?

Sherlock still wouldn't turn around. Sherlock had thought he'd left for good, and Sherlock had come after him to ask him to return. John felt a peculiar fluttering in his mid-section. "I didn't mean for good. You can't get rid of me that easily."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "It appears not."

The kettle shut off and John leaped at the change of subject. "Cup of tea?" he asked, returning to the kitchen. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Nothing. I should return to London—"

"Don't be stupid, not in this weather. It's too late anyway. Stay here tonight," John said, carrying the two cups of tea into the living room.

He froze. Sherlock was looking at John's open laptop. _Reading._

"_Shaun House was tall and stupidly gorgeous with cheekbones that wouldn't look out of place on a supermodel. He let his gaze glide over Josh in a way that made him ask pointed questions about his sexuality,"_ he read aloud.

John put the tea cups down on the coffee table and snatched back the laptop. "You weren't supposed to see that," he said, his face flaming.

Sherlock, however, _didn't_ immediately flay him alive with derision. "That's how you think of me?" he asked stiffly.

"It's a novel, Sherlock, fictional," said John tightly, thinking now would be a good time for the cottage's ancient floorboards to give way.

Sherlock's gaze bore into him, pinned him. "But one with thinly veiled characterisations of us both—you've made yourself the deductive genius but otherwise our characteristics are the same—" Sherlock grasped his wrist. "Is that how you see me?"

John swallowed, heart rate unaccountably heightened, humiliated that he'd revealed himself so obviously, mortified that he'd probably offended Sherlock with the clumsy caricature. "It's stupid, forget it."

Sherlock didn't relax his gaze and his hand still encircled John's wrist.

Suddenly overwhelmed, John tugged his hand free. "Soup. There's soup if you want some?"

Sherlock didn't respond and when John risked a glance in his direction again he had turned his back and was staring into the fire.

John used the time it took to heat the soup and toast some sourdough bread to clear his head. It was _Sherlock_, he had no reason to be feeling so jittery. So he had been missing the prat a bit, had been surprised to see him show up unexpectedly, there was no reason to be so on edge every time Sherlock looked at him.

John ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock was just embarrassed about having John's stupid crush brought so obviously to his attention.

He cleared his throat and carried the tray with the soup and toast out to the small table in the living room. He decided ignoring the whole thing was the best course of action.

"So anything interesting happen while I was away?"

Sherlock poked at the soup and took a bite of toast, chewing desultorily before he answered. "Mrs Hudson is taking the kitchen linoleum out of next month's rent."

"What happened to the lino?"

"It proved non-resistant to fluorosulfuric acid."

John raised his eyebrows and then caught Sherlock's eye and bit back a smirk of amusement. "Found something to occupy yourself then, did you?"

"Please, it took me five minutes to complete my experiment _by which time_ you were refusing to answer my texts. It was extremely vexing, John." Sherlock's mouth tensed and he looked away, brow furrowed.

"You really did think I'd left," John said, amazed.

Sherlock glanced back at him, and then down at his soup. "Don't let it go to your head."

John smiled. "For the record, I missed you too, you git. A bit. Though I did enjoy the peace for the first few days."

Sherlock's expression returned to its usual cool blankness. He raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Hm, yes, I can see you were productive."

He groaned. "Just forget the sodding book, all right?"

The corner of Sherlock's lips turned up into a smirk. "Oh, but John," he practically purred and something shifted in his expression. "It was so _very _illuminating."

He refused to let his face register the embarrassment he felt, or the way his stomach fluttered oddly at the unsettling look in Sherlock's eyes, but his ears heated all the same. "Sod off," he said with a scowl. He stood up. "I'm having a Scotch, want one?"

Sherlock shook his head but he abandoned his meal as well and joined him by the fire.

They sat in a silence so familiar that, despite John's embarrassment, it soon slipped easily back into one of comfortable companionship. He sighed contentedly. All right, so maybe he had missed Sherlock more than he wanted to admit.

The wind battered the cottage; a particularly fierce blast rattled the windows and crept through cracks and crevices. The lights flickered and then went out. A new level of silence fell as the low hum of various electrical appliances stopped abruptly.

John made his way by firelight into the kitchen, where he knew there was a torch under the sink. By the time he came back, Sherlock had already lit the candles on the mantelpiece. John pulled on his coat and, bracing himself against the freezing wind and rain, went outside to check the fuse box.

"The fuses are fine," he reported. "One of the lines must be down. The fucking fantastic news is it's snowing. Let's hope we can drive out of here tomorrow."

Shivering, he went upstairs to change out of his trousers, sodden from the quick dash outside. He brought an armful of pillows and blankets back downstairs.

"The electric blanket isn't going to work and it's going to be bloody frigid, so we might as well set up camp next to the fire for the night." He tossed a pillow and a duvet at Sherlock and shifted the armchairs back before laying his own blanket out like a sleeping bag. Sherlock followed suit.

"Bit like having a sleepover," grinned John, stretching out on his blanket and rubbing his hands to warm them.

"I wouldn't know."

John licked his bottom lip as he glanced at Sherlock. "You're serious? You never had a mate sleep over when you were a kid? Sit up too late, talking rot, stuffing yourselves with sweets?"

Sherlock's back was straight and his posture stiff as he sat on the blanket. "I did stay at a friend's country house over the summer holidays once when I was at university. If that counts."

"Oh?" Sherlock so rarely offered information of a personal nature. The only university friend John had ever heard of was dickhead Sebastian Wilkes, and somehow John doubted the tosser would have invited Sherlock to the family estate.

Sherlock glanced towards him. "Victor Trevor. My only friend at our college. His dog bit me and his exaggerated sense of responsibility forced him to befriend me. He was gay—closeted then, of course—didn't have any real friends he could trust. I think he saw me as an outsider too. I believe that's why he felt he could be himself with me."

"What happened?" John asked hesitantly.

"His father had a secret and I couldn't help myself." Sherlock smirked ruefully at him. "I'm sure you can imagine what happened. Things...ended badly...Victor's father died and Victor couldn't forgive my involvement. Our friendship ended." Sherlock sighed. "It was his father who suggested I make some use of my deductive skills and gave me the idea to become a consulting detective."

"So not all bad, then."

"No. Not all bad."

"What was the mystery? Do you mind telling me?"

Sherlock leaned back against the side of the armchair. He frowned, sucked on his top lip thoughtfully, and began the tale of Victor Trevor's father and the Gloria Scott air disaster.

In the 60s, a group of court-martialled Australian soldiers, including one James Armitage, were on a flight out of Vietnam to stand trial. Fearing being turned into political scapegoats, they made a pact to hijack the plane and escape into Thailand. Of course the plan went wrong; the flight crew were shot and the plane crashed. When they were rescued, the only survivors, Armitage and another man, Evans, took the names Gordon Trevor and Bruce Hudson, the dead crewmen, and began their lives afresh.

James Armitage, as Gordon Trevor, made a fortune setting up clothing sweatshops in South Asia. Hudson was not so fortunate, and upon discovering Trevor's success, decided to blackmail him. Sherlock deduced that Trevor was under strain due to a secret involving someone with the initials J. A., but it was Hudson's reappearance, with a demand for a partnership in Trevor's business empire, that was the last straw for someone with Trevor's heart condition. He suffered a fatal heart attack but left a recorded confession for his son, Victor, to discover.

"Victor was understandably distraught," Sherlock finished. "He moved to Bangladesh to take over management of one of his father's factories. I never saw him again."

"I'm sorry."

"I thought myself in love with him." Sherlock's mouth quirked scornfully. "Sentiment."

"Bloody hell," breathed John.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the chair and shut his eyes. "All's well that ends well, John. Imagine if I'd never deduced Mr Trevor Senior, never had the idea to become a consulting detective. I'd probably have gone into biological science, set up house with Victor, and B&B mini-breaks and wine tours would be the highlight of our week. Can you imagine anything more tedious?"

"Dreadful," agreed John, grinning.

Sherlock huffed softly. "And I'd have never been introduced to a former army doctor and the most magnificent man I've ever had the privilege of knowing." He turned to look at John, his smile slightly crooked. "So, no, not all bad."

John's heart pounded. He sat up and studied the fire, quite unable to look at Sherlock at that moment. "You, um, I thank my lucky stars every bloody day that I met you, you know that, right? Even when you're being an arse. I think...my life without you would have been infinitely less." He exhaled and met Sherlock's gaze with a rueful smile. "So I'm bloody grateful you couldn't resist sticking your nose into Gordon Trevor's business."

Sherlock broke into one of his rare real smiles and rumbled a laugh. "Indeed."

John returned his smile and then had to look away. God, talk about wearing his heart on his sleeve. He couldn't even blame the Scotch; he'd only had a few sips. He shook himself and watched the flames crackle and the embers drift in the fireplace.

The wind wailed around the cottage, yet sitting here by the fire, sharing confidences, John felt warm and comfortable. He felt a familiar low burn of arousal, thanks to his mad infatuation with Sherlock, stoked a little by the confirmation that Sherlock was, or at least _had been, _interested in men. What, if anything, John was going to do with that knowledge, he didn't know. Somewhere, somehow, between chases through London, late night takeaways, and breathless laughter, for better or worse, his life had become inextricably bound up with Sherlock Holmes. If that was all, then it would be enough.

He remembered his ski-bunny fantasy from a few days ago and huffed in amusement. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"This—one of my fantasies, snowbound in a cabin, with someone special. Should have known it would turn out I'd be here with you instead." He put his glass on the side table and gave Sherlock a wry grin. "No different to anything else in my life, really."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. "Do you mind?" he asked finally.

John met his gaze. "If I'd minded, I would have left a long time ago. I keep choosing you, don't I?"

Sherlock searched his face.

"I choose you," repeated John firmly. "I think I always will."

Sherlock swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in the pale column of his throat. Wordlessly he leaned forward and pressed his lips to John's.

John jerked back, heart thudding. "Sherlock—Oh." He licked his lips, gaze dropping to Sherlock's mouth and then flickering up to unreadable eyes. "I—"

Sherlock pulled away, expression too, too blank. "Forgive me—"

"No— I wasn't expecting—that…you want to do that?"

"Delete it. A misjudgement—"

"No," said John firmly. "It wasn't," and he leaned forward to return the kiss.

For a moment silence fell, the wind stopped howling, the windows stopped rattling, and John's mind stopped whirling; everything was focused on the feel and taste of Sherlock's lips, the soft, wet graze of his tongue, his soft puffs of breath and his fingers biting into John's wrist and upper arm. Slowly, gently, they parted.

He stared at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back at him.

John licked his lips. "Ah, right. Well—that was—."

"John—" Sherlock claimed his mouth again.

This time the kiss lasted a lot longer, and soon they were sprawled on their nest of blankets, knees and thighs interwoven, hands moving feverishly as they explored each other's mouths.

"Christ, you're so hot," John gasped. One of Sherlock's hands was down the back of his pants, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers woven through his hair.

Sherlock groaned as John wormed his hand between the buttons of his shirt. "I thought you'd finally left me," he murmured between kisses. "I thought I'd lost you."

"No, nope." John deepened the kiss. "No. I can't believe—I can't believe you want me."

Sherlock nipped at his lips before whispering against them, low and harsh, "Don't ever leave me, John."

"No, no. Won't," he assured, drawing his mouth down over Sherlock's jaw and throat. "God, I want you. Can I have you? Can we have sex? Do you want to?"

Sherlock groaned, "_John_," and rolled John onto his back in one swift movement, bracing himself over him and taking his mouth again.

It was messy and clumsy and John found himself blushing more than once but then so did Sherlock, and they fumbled at clothing and bumped knees and jabbed elbows but what they lacked in finesse they made up for in enthusiasm. It was a new experience entirely, John discovered, to have Sherlock's mouth map your body with heated, needy kisses. It was a new experience altogether to be able to run your hands over Sherlock's slim waist and hear him groan as you sucked a lovely purple bruise onto his throat. And it was yet another new experience to have Sherlock Holmes' deep voice begging against your ear as you fucked into his fist and he fucked into yours.

"Please, John, please, oh—more, yes, oh—don't stop, don't, don't—_John_—"

"Oh _God_, Sherlock—"

Afterwards, they both lay panting in front of the fire. Sherlock, breathless and flushed, looked like a sodding painting with the firelight painting his skin golden, his nude body a picture of recent debauchery. He gazed at John unashamedly.

"That was brilliant," John said, unable to hold back a grin. "You're brilliant."

Sherlock ran his knuckles along John's ribs and his lips twitched into an answering smile. "_My_ John."

* * *

"John," murmured Sherlock later, as he pressed cold toes against John's in the snug mess of duvets and pillows in front of the fire.

"Hmm?" John sleepily rubbed his sock-clad feet against Sherlock's bare ones.

"Your book is terrible."

"Oh, shut up."

Sherlock kissed his shoulder. "Although given your blog's readership, I'm sure there will be some prurient interest..."

"Seriously, shut up now."

"Especially if you include an erotic interlude between your protagonists."

"Do you _want _to sleep in the car?" He rolled them both over, pinning Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm more than happy to assist you with any research you may wish to undertake in that re—" his words were cut off as John discovered there was an added benefit to kissing Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

They both had hire cars so they drove to the rental drop-off location separately. Two hours into the trip, John pulled off to refuel. As he did, he checked his phone and discovered an avalanche of one hundred and forty-six text messages and one voicemail from Sherlock Holmes.

John listened to the voicemail and read all the texts over a coffee, his expression alternately bemused, amused, and fond. He sent only one in reply.

_I love you too, you mad git. Your John_

End


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